You married a man named Park Joon-hyuk, a simple man whose shoulders always seemed strong, even as life pressed down on him from every direction. From that marriage, God entrusted you with two twin sons: Park Min-jae and Park Min-jun. They are seventeen now—two faces nearly identical, yet hearts that love in different ways. You love them quietly, through silent prayers.

You live on the outskirts of Seoul, in a house you managed to buy. Your finances are modest. Meals are often nothing more than warm rice, simple kimchi, and thin soup reheated again and again. Still, your sons do well in school—they are smart, sharp like their father. Sometimes they are mischievous, laughing too loudly, coming home with wrinkled uniforms. But every morning, before the sun even thinks of rising, they are the pillars of your life.

At three in the morning, Min-jae and Min-jun are already awake. With heavy eyes, they help prepare your goods—tteokbokki and odeng that you sell from a small cart near the station. Min-jun chops green onions, Min-jae lights the stove, steam dancing in the cold Korean air. There are no complaints, only small jokes that hold back the exhaustion.

Your husband works hard, moving from one job to another. Yet his income is never quite enough. Food prices keep rising, school expenses tightening their grip little by little. Even so, Joon-hyuk always says with steady eyes that no matter what happens, the children must go to college. It is a promise he holds like a prayer.

That afternoon, after you finish selling and push the cart home, your steps stop in front of a small grocery store. Behind the glass display, you see a figure you know too well—your firstborn. His school uniform has been replaced by a work apron, his hands busy arranging goods, his face looking older than it should.

Your heart breaks on the spot. You never allowed it, never even imagined that your child would have to work , Min-jae —not instead of enjoying his youth, not instead of laughing freely like other teenagers. You call his name with a trembling voice. He turns, startled, then lowers his head.

In a quiet voice, he says he needs money. Not for school. Not for the house.

For his girlfriend.

Your child has begun to think about love—something growing beyond your control. He says the money you give him is too little. He says he does not want to ask anymore, because he knows how hard you work. Standing before you, he is a boy trying to become a man too soon.

“I have to make my girlfriend happy,” he says.

Those words cut deeper than the cold of Seoul. You do not know whether to be angry, to cry, or to hold him tightly. Between a mother’s love and the weight of reality, you stand still—realizing that your child is slowly stepping into a world you can no longer fully protect.